Just A car Crash Away
by Prosper-the-XVIII
Summary: A tragic accident leaves Sherlock, the perennially emotionless robot, to face the feelings of regret and perhaps even love that he suppressed until the unthinkable happened...Sherlolly, Johnlock if that's how you want to interpret it. WARNING: Major character death


"No."  
>"Sherlock, please-"<br>"You're lying to me. Stop lying to me."  
>"Sherlock, I wouldn't-"<br>"John, go and get her," what he was to make of Sherlock's behavior patterns, which presently were unusual even for him, John had no idea. Shaking and close to tears though he was himself, he had been tasked with breaking the horrific news to the sociopathic detective, who presently was in shock, slightly concussed and possibly broken-ribbed, so any emotions of his own would have to wait.  
>"What?"<br>"Tell someone to go back and get her, John, it wasn't...too hard...an...instruction..." Sherlock's breath quickened, catching in his throat and contorting his voice.  
>"No...Sherlock, I can't. She..." He was struggling to comprehend it now too. Until that moment, where Sherlock seemed to be letting his guard down for the first time in forever, he'd been living inside of a nightmare. That was just how the world worked. Sherlock Holmes didn't give a shit about anybody. Molly Hooper didn't die. It just wasn't right. But now both of these statements had well and truly been proven false, nothing really was right anymore. "Sherlock, Molly's dead. I've got to put it bluntly, and I'm sorry. But she is."<p>

There was a pause. An elongated, unpleasant, gut-wrenching pause, during which all John could do was stand and watch the tears stream silently down his colleague's face. Sherlock was sitting behind drawn curtains with his legs folded into his chest on a bed in accident and emergency (disregard indeed for the doctor's instructions, given that there was an apparent possibility that he'd broken four ribs and his sternum) in a hospital gown and his suit trousers, his dark hair sweat-dampened and disheveled and his face pale, a mess with tiny cuts and bruises smattered around, much like those covering John's own face.  
>"No. No she isn't. Stop bloody <em>lying <em>to me!" Sherlock bashed a fist off of the metal bar running along the bed's side, clearly utterly beyond rationality. John's hand went towards the brunet man's shoulder, but Sherlock viciously swiped him away, growling under his breath. "Do _not _touch me." John sighed. He didn't want to be where they were any more than Sherlock did - he couldn't think of many places he'd rather be _less_. But it was far too late to change anything about it.

"Sherlock-" Another attempt at the shoulder sent him shoved backwards a few inches by an either grieving or sulking Sherlock. "Sherlock, listen to me, for god's sake. You are being even more of a ridiculous fruit loop than usual, and I'm sorry for having to say that. But I would not lie to you, especially not about something like this - the only one here that is lying is you, to yourself. Now-"  
>"How did it..." Sherlock's voice was barely there, and he refused to allow his gaze to meet his blogger's.<br>"Sorry?"  
>"Honestly, your hearing has gone to shit," Sherlock jested for a moment, before either John's face or his own phenomenal mind reminded him of the circumstances. The anger came on a second time as he spoke through his gritted teeth. "What happened, John? She seemed so..." He didn't finish. That was a lie.<p>

Loathe as he was to admit to letting himself appear...human for more than half a second, he knew exactly what had happened, and he remembered it in high definition, too. It seemed that John did, too. He was convinced that it had happened in slow-motion - impossible, of course, but that's how he recalled it. One minute the three of them had been driving down the motorway, he and John bickering in the front about the GPS' usefulness, or lack of thereof, and Molly in the back with a magazine in her lap, grimacing and tapping tentatively at his shoulder at regular intervals in a 'Sherlock, you're driving and I'd quite like to stay on the road if that's okay with you' sort of way. Yet it hadn't been this that had caused what had happened to happen.

When the ambulance had arrived, he'd become aware for the first time that the car was on its side, John had gotten out via the passenger side door, and that they'd been crashed into from behind by a lorry. He had no idea what had happened to Molly, but even in spite of this he had protested and lashed out when people had come to his aid first, insisting that she needed it more, and that he was going nowhere until she was safe. He'd been ignored, clearly, because she had been nowhere to be seen when they'd dragged him out, and now...

"Sherlock?"  
>"What?"<br>"You didn't hear a word of that, did you?"  
>"No, no I didn't. Did you say something?"<br>"Yes, Sherlock, I..." John put his face in his hands, sighing deeply. "Sherlock, she got thrown about more than any of us because she was closer to the impact than we were. She was a hundred times worse off than both of us put together, and...they think she had a massive intra-abdominal bleed, and she...her heart just stopped in the ambulance. She was dead before she got here. I'm sorry."  
>"John?" Once again, his voice was a whisper; barely there, and shaking beyond recognition. "Could- could you possibly leave for a moment?"<p>

The curtain opened and parted, and it was then that Sherlock allowed himself and his emotions to be alone together. As soon as he knew John wasn't there, it all came on in a rush. Scream. Inhale. Scream. Inhale. Scream. Inhale. He didn't know how long this went on for.

How downright horrid he'd been to her for the hefty duration of the time he'd known her for shocked and appalled him. Her affections had gone ignored for a sickeningly long time; the Christmas deduction made him feel sick to his stomach. It had taken him this long to realize that he needed to apologize to her for how phenomenal a shit he was; only now he couldn't.

Dead. Molly Hooper was fucking dead. Forever. And there was no way in the world that he could change that.

Of everything he'd ever felt in his life - what he was experiencing now in terms of physical pain from injury, the attempts to asphyxiate him, the jumping off of buildings, and all the rest of it - nothing had ever hurt quite like this.


End file.
